“Not that I know of.”
“Is this a … is it a …”
“Date? No.”
I don’t think so. I mean, it isn’t. But it makes me wonder: Could it turn into one?
“No,” I say again. “It was my idea to go.”
I almost say, I’m thinking about getting tested too. I know we talked about it after Mom died, but now that I’m older I think I might want to. Maybe that way I won’t worry as much. I throw myself a grape and miss my mouth. Or maybe I’ll worry more, depending on what I find out. I pick the grape off my shirt, and then frown at the shirt. “Do you think we could go shopping?”
He raises an eyebrow. “For your non-date?”
“You wouldn’t actually have to go. You could just let me borrow money. Or I could get a job.”
“No jobs. Not right now. One thing at a time.”
“So can I borrow some money, then?”
“You realize you’ve just asked me if you can skip school and borrow money in the same conversation? You realize I’m the world’s best dad?”
“I do.”
He tilts his head back and I throw him a grape. I throw George a grape and he smacks it across the room. I throw myself a grape and this time I catch it like a pro.
In my room, I pick up my phone and settle back against the headboard. I call Bailey because this is what real friends who aren’t imaginary do. When she answers, I say, “What do you think of Jack Masselin?”
“As a person or as a guy?”
“Both.”
“I think he’s basically a good person who sometimes lacks judgment. As a guy, I think he’s cute and funny, and he knows it, but he’s not as jerky as a lot of them. Why?”
“Oh, I’m just wondering.”
“I’m not telling you how to feel, Libbs, but he and Caroline are one of those forever couples. I mean, even when they’re not together, they’re together, and if it was me, I wouldn’t want to go near him. You’d just set yourself up for heartbreak.”
“I’m not saying I’m interested.”
But am I?
I change the subject to Terri Collins and the Damsels, and Bailey tells me about this boy she likes who lives in New Castle. We talk for a while, and afterward I go on Iris’s Instagram account, where I like every single one of her most recent posts. I choose one randomly and comment on it, and I almost leave it at that. But then I decide to call her. I go straight to voice mail and leave a rambling apology. She calls me back immediately, and even though I don’t want to, I answer because I am not an island.
At home, I find Mom-with-Hair-Up in her study, deep in work, law books open, laptop humming. I rap on the door. “Oldest son, reporting for duty.”
She gives me a Mom look. “Did you manage to make it through the day without assaulting anyone or having to see the principal?”
“Yes, I did.” I raise my arms in a triumphant V, like I just crossed a finish line.
“Well done. Let’s see if we can have more days like this.” She holds up one hand, fingers crossed, while the other hand marks her place in one of the books. “By the way, a package came for you. I left it on the island in the kitchen. What did you order?”
“Just stuff for school.” I’m hoping she’ll take this as evidence that I’m a new and improved Jack, lesson learned.
Her phone rings, and she shakes her head. “Go ahead and get pizza or something for dinner, unless your dad can throw something together.”
“I don’t think he’s home yet.”
Her face goes blank, and before she can say anything and because she works hard and he’s a louse, and because she doesn’t deserve to feel bad about anything, I jog around the desk and kiss her on the cheek. “You’re welcome to all this swag, Mom. I’ve got so much to spare. Here’s a little more to help you with your case.” And I hug her. It’s not much, but it makes her laugh, even as she’s pushing me away.
I open the box in my room. Two titles by Oliver Sacks, a textbookish volume on visual perception called Face and Mind, and a biography of prosopagnosic painter Chuck Close, who’s made a name for himself painting faces and is a total badass. He’s in a wheelchair, with a messed-up hand, and he’s face-blind, but he creates these paintings that are really damn awesome. This is how he does it:
He photographs the face.
He maps the face by making a photographic grid of it.
He then builds the face piece by piece on canvas, using oils, acrylics, ink, graphite, or colored pencils.
According to him, it’s always about the face.
Only about the face.
Because the face is a road map of life.
I text Jayvee. Our conversation begins, as always, with Atticus Finch.
Me: Let’s say Atticus Finch is your father.
Jayvee: Am I Scout or Jem?
Me: Either. Or Jayvee. Jayvee Finch.
Jayvee: Of the Filipino Finches. Continue.
Me: Let’s say there’s an illness that runs in the family, and when you were little, Atticus decided you shouldn’t be tested for it.
Jayvee: Atticus is usually right. Is there a cure?
Me: Not really.
Jayvee: Am I questioning Atticus now that I’m all grown up and womanly?
Me: Maybe.
Jayvee: How old am I now?
Me: Our age.
Jayvee: I’d assume old Atticus had his reasons. He’s Atticus Finch, after all.
Five seconds later: